


Caged Bird Heart

by sadhockeytrashbaby (allofthefandoms)



Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: Anxiety, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Gore, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Magical Realism, Self-Harm
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-06-16
Updated: 2017-06-15
Packaged: 2018-11-14 17:31:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,017
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11212830
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/allofthefandoms/pseuds/sadhockeytrashbaby
Summary: “This won’t be our last shot, for either of us,” Sid swears, voice thick with both sadness and certainty.Or; Snapshots of loss.





	Caged Bird Heart

**Author's Note:**

> Gods dammit I am having too many feelings about Marc-Andre Fleury leaving the Pens so I'm emoting via ridiculous fic and my favorite OTP. I decided to rate it explicit right away, even though the first chapter is gen hurt/comfort pre-slash, but I know I'll forget to change the tags later, so it's tagged for the whole fic, not just the first chapter.
> 
> A note on the self harm (spoilery tags in the end notes): It involves impossible and magically healing injury that is deliberately done as a way to relieve grief, but it not dangerous or lasting. It is, however, explicit and bloody.

Sid can barely breathe.

The loss galls him, bile choking at his throat and making his chest feel like lead.  He wants to scream and cry, but the C is a brand on his chest reminding him that the team is looking to him for how to react.  He has to keep it together.  Sid has never really had the luxury of showing how he feels, but it’s especially true now.

It doesn’t stop him from taking a moment to compose himself before walking into the locker room.  He can still hear distant jubilation, the cup in some other captain’s hands, and the fear that this might be his only chance sit leaden in his bones.  He knows that many great players, many record setters and hall of famers, never get to lift the cup.  That’s can’t be his fate.  It can’t.

But there is work to be done before Sid can give in and allow in self doubt and guilt.

He is still forced to draw on every inch of his media training to get through the media scrum that night.  He wants to cry and feel hopeless, right on the edge of cracking, voice thick as he speaks on autopilot.  He barely remembers the words that come out of his mouth and he hopes he says the right things.  A few of the regulars give him gentle words of comfort when it’s all over, but now comes the infinitely harder task of talking to his teammates.

“I’m sorry,” He chokes out, staring at the Penguins logo in the center of the locker room, unable to meet anyone’s eyes.  There is an immediate cry of protest, and it makes him look up.  He meets determined, if red-rimmed, gazes and can’t help but smile.  He has never felt anything but devotion from this room, and not even this loss has changed that.  He knows his expression is a little wobbly as he looks around, but it’s real and it makes something crack open inside him.

“I’m so proud of each and every one of you,” he murmurs, letting the tears show.  “Being your captain…it has been an honor and a privilege.  We’ll get back here.  This won’t be our only shot.”

 

.  .

 

Flower isn’t in the room when Sid finishes doing his rounds.  Sid knows Marc will take this hardest of all as the goalie, and more than that Marc is one of his closest friends, his roommate and plane buddy, a steady force of jovial warmth to wash against Sid’s tendency to hyperfocus and obsess.  But no one takes losses harder than Flower, not even Sid.

Sid finds Flower in the training room after media, only half undressed.  His head is bowed as he scrapes and scratches at his own skin and he can see the blood dripping from his fingers and down his wrists to ooze down into his lap.

"Its okay," Sid murmurs, approaching like he would a skittish animal.  "This isn't your fault."

“We would have won if I’d been just a little faster…”  Marc’s voice is wet and thick and Sid feels his heart lurch and twist.

“One person doesn’t win a game.”

“But I should have stopped us from losing.”  Sid sits down beside him with a soft sigh, unsure what to say.  Marc’s chest is ribbons, and Sid can see his lungs and heart fluttering between his ribs as he fights tears.  It looks far too small for the man who carries it, a little trembling scared thing.  Sid presses his hand to the raw ribs right above it, heart aching with the sudden desire to keep this precious thing safe.  They have to win.  _Marc_ has to win.  Sid eventually pulls away, Marc’s hands tucked in his, cradling them against his chest.

“I’m so proud of you, Flower,” he murmurs, caught by the intensity of his emotions.”You’ve fought so hard for all of us all season.  Let me take care of you now.”  He goes to the sink, running some lukewarm water with a little bit of the Epsom salts sometimes used to help with swelling and aches and pains.  He grabs a rag before returning.

“Let’s get you cleaned up.”

He starts with Marc’s hands, scrubbing under the well trimmed nails to shake all the scabs loose.  The water goes rusty with the drying blood, and Sid tries not to look too hard.  This is Flower, the always chipper, chirping keeper of the cage, hiding away so the others wouldn’t see his pain.  It makes Sid ache, and he pulls Marc into his lap, trying to let his presence comfort him even though Sid couldn’t find any words that didn’t sound trite or empty.

Finally, when Marc’s hands are shining and clean, Sid has to turn to the mess that is Marc’s chest.  He presses the first strip up, encouraging Marc to lean back so they would stay in place as Sid wipes the blood away as best he can.  The skin is soft and squishy, but begins to fuse as it encounters other raw edges.  Before Sid’s eyes, the bloody gashes begin to fade away, looking days old in just minutes.  The water is red by now, and Sid stands to empty it and get fresh water so he can finish cleaning Marc.  He doesn’t say anything as Sid works, but Sid doesn’t ask it of him, instead letting the silence buffer the raw feelings they are both swimming in.  When it’s done, Sid finds the softest gray shirt he owns and lets Marc slide into it.  It’s too big around the shoulders and too short in the torso, but Marc huddles into it like it’s meant for him.  Sid’s heart gives yet another treacherous lurch, and he gives in to the urge to pull him close.

“This won’t be our last shot, for either of us,” Sid swears, voice thick with both sadness and certainty.  “We’ll win it all next time, together.” Marc gives him the first real smile Sid has seen since the final buzzer, and Sid can’t help but pull him close.

“Together.”

**Author's Note:**

> Flower literally peals his skin off to reveal his heart. Because...metaphor. And my feelings.


End file.
